


The Good Son

by angevin2



Category: Henry IV (Parts 1 & 2) - Shakespeare
Genre: Appalling Smugness, Brotherhood, Canon Typical Violence, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Historical, Medieval, POV Minor Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 12:32:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angevin2/pseuds/angevin2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John of Lancaster is a prick. But he has his reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Good Son

**Author's Note:**

> Written for **roz_mcclure** in the 2008 Histories Ficathon.
> 
> I gave up on trying to pretend there is any correspondence between the play's timeline and the historical timeline somewhere around the third segment. I feel I am just being true to the source. And yes, the title _was_ inspired by Nick Cave.

_ And he answerde to his fadir, and seide, Lo! so many yeeris Y serue thee, and Y neuer brak thi comaundement; and thou neuer yaf to me a kidde, that Y with my freendis schulde haue ete. But aftir that this thi sone, that hath deuourid his substaunce with horis, cam, thou hast slayn to hym a fat calf.  
– Luke 15:28-30 (trans. John Wyclif) _

I.

The first time Harry came back to court was for King Richard's funeral.

Harry had been sulky and downcast ever since he learned that Father would be king even though it meant he would be Prince of Wales and next in line for the throne, or maybe even _because_ of that. John suspected his brother had no interest in being king at all, and he supposed that that was sensible because it was nearly impossible that he would have been any good at it. Nobody who would be a good king would ever do what Harry did and run off to London to waste his substance in riotous living like the prodigal son. Stories were already drifting back to Windsor about his exploits: drinking and wenching and, it was whispered, even highway robbery, and Lord knows what else.

Father had been furious, of course, when Harry left court, and there was a great deal of murmuring among the nobles about the future of the realm, already set upon pins. In January there had been a plot by some of King Richard's friends to murder Father and Harry and John and their brothers and put Richard back on the throne; John and Thomas and Humphrey had spent an uncomfortable Twelfth-night in the Tower praying for deliverance, but in the end the plot had failed and London saw nothing of it but the heads of the rebels displayed on the bridge. Harry had remained nowhere to be seen throughout the whole affair; certainly the dingy taverns of Eastcheap would probably be of little concern to the rebels, or indeed anybody else, but it scarcely suited an heir-apparent to be off carousing while his kingdom and indeed his family stood in danger of desolation. John wondered if he was safe, if he knew what was going on or even cared.

It was, then, a bit of a surprise when Harry appeared at the requiem mass at St. Paul's, although John knew that his brother had liked the former king, which he supposed said nothing very good about Harry. After all, King Richard had been terribly wicked, and had oppressed nobles and commons alike, even going so far as to take Father's lands away after Grandfather died, and so the people of England had made Father king instead. God would certainly never have let that happen if it had not been right.

Clearly, though, Harry was not reconciled to this judgment, and so when he slipped without fanfare into the nave of the Abbey and stood watching the proceedings his face was closed and sullen and his eyes were red and angry. When King Richard's body was sent to King's Langley for burial at the Dominican friary there, Harry vanished from sight along with it.

A few weeks later he was in trouble for giving old Judge Gascoigne a box of the ear and John was summoned to take his place in council.

John felt the realm would be better off for it.

II.

John had never been in a battle before.

He had thought, secretly, that despite all his training it might be frightening to have people trying to kill him for real, but in the end, the fighting – at least, once it got to be close work and the archers had stopped shooting – was not very frightening at all. It was much less complicated, anyway, than council meetings and parliaments and answering Father's questions about where Harry was. Instead it was your army and the other one, and you had to kill more of their men than they killed of yours, and that was all. And if you were facing an army like this one that was taking up arms against their lord and king, then you knew that your cause was right, and that the work you did was the work of God, who would not let the righteous fall in their hour of need.

Harry was back at court now and had made things up with Father and vowed to reform his life, and his regrettable and extremely recent past had been mostly laid aside and tactfully not acknowledged. Although he had not fought many battles, himself – he had been to Ireland with King Richard, certainly, but there would hardly have been time for very much fighting, and anyway Harry rarely spoke about _that_ – he nevertheless talked to John as if he were an old warrior training up a pageboy and said a lot of nonsense that John had to pretend to listen to soberly because Harry was the Prince of Wales and had all of a sudden decided to act like it. Though it was unlikely, John thought, he had anything very useful to say, unless one was going to be facing ale-soaked ruffians in Eastcheap, and thanks to Harry's maneuvering the ale-soaked Eastcheap ruffians were all fighting on the King's part. If you could call it fighting.

What surprised John, a little, about his first battle was how much worse was the part afterwards: all blood-soaked ground and severed limbs, dead horses and broken heads and gaping wounds. Harry had taken an arrow to the face, which made John shudder when he thought about it; the broken tip remained lodged in his cheek and the surgeons were even now devising an instrument to retrieve it. Nevertheless he had fought bravely on and been the hero of the day: he had met Percy on the field and (rumor had it, since Harry himself was surprisingly unforthcoming about the incident) after a long fight, had killed him, after which the rebels' army had quickly collapsed. John thought he must have underestimated his brother. He had faced Percy himself, and had quickly found himself flat on his back at swordpoint – but Percy had laughed at him, rather than finishing him off.

"You've got the mettle of a warrior, boy," he had said, grinning, "but you'd best learn to watch your follow-through if you hope to do any better than this," and had left John in the dirt, his face burning.

Well, Percy was dead now, and Harry had proved himself. At least, he'd proved that he was good at fighting battles, John thought, and making speeches beforehand, which were, he had to admit, pretty impressive. John knew that it was wrong and sinful to be envious of his brother, but he wasn't sure he approved. All Harry had really done, after all, was to do well in a battle. It didn't mean he'd be a good king, did it? Father was a good king and he hardly ever fought battles (though when he did he was, of course, quite good at it).

It made John feel even more guilty that Harry spoke nothing but praise of _him_, as uncomfortable as his references to maiden swords were. He said, too, that Father felt the same way. Father had not told John so to his face, but he had more important things to do, after all, and anyway, he seemed terribly worn-down after the battle, so it felt wrong to bother him.

"Are you going to stay at court now?" John asked Harry, as he sat in his tent having his arrow wound washed with heated wine.

Harry smiled, and then winced. "That's for me to know, and you...not to," he said.

"I guess you're probably going to go drinking with Falstaff to celebrate or something, then?" John said.

Harry stared at him, looking like John had punched him in the face (which, truth be told, he often wanted to do).

"Falstaff's dead," he said.

John couldn't truthfully say he was sorry no matter how upset Harry looked. After all, it was probably best for everyone involved, except perhaps Falstaff, but John could not bring himself to care about _that_.

"Oh," he managed noncommittally, and decided not to pursue the issue.

As it turned out Falstaff was in fact not dead but was, rather, lumbering towards the camp at that very moment, dragging the body of Harry Percy behind him in an extremely undignified manner and claiming to have killed him.

"If your father will do me any honor, so; if not, let him kill the next Percy himself," Falstaff said, dropping the earthly remains of the Hotspur of the north on the ground like a sack of turnips. "I look to be either earl or duke, I can assure you."

Harry's face was now as red as scarlet in grain. "Why, Percy I killed myself," he managed, in a strangled voice, "and saw thee dead!"

"Didst thou?" Falstaff roared. "Lord, Lord, how this world is given to lying," and he immediately recounted a tale of how he and Percy had fought a battle – "a long hour by Shrewsbury clock," he said – and pointed out a wound in Percy's thigh, a wound that had certainly not been struck in battle, for battle wounds, John knew now without doubt, were nothing so clean. The one the arrow had sliced across Harry's cheek was even now growing livid beneath the clotted blood. It made John a little sick to look at it.

"This is the strangest tale that ever I heard," he said, not at all uncertain of whom to believe, but looking nervously from Harry to Falstaff and back again as they stared each other down.

It was Harry who surrendered, in the event, looking away from Falstaff, who preened like a great turkey-cock and poked Percy's corpse with his toe.

"This is the strangest fellow, brother John," he said, looking strangely deflated as he admitted defeat. "Come, bear your luggage nobly on your back," he told Falstaff, smiling in a way that was also a grimace. "For my part, if a lie may do thee grace, I'll gild it with the happiest terms I have." 

"He didn't kill Percy," John said, as they made their way towards higher ground to survey the field, as soon as Falstaff was out of earshot. It sounded to his ears like an accusation.

Harry smirked. "I always knew you were a clever boy," he said, and, turning away, continued marching across the field as if that settled the matter.

"That's not the point," John continued. "Why are you letting him say that he did?"

"How long have you been sitting in council?" Harry asked him.

"Almost a year," John said. "What does that have to do with it?"

"And you haven't learned to keep your own counsel amongst your elders?"

Once again Harry turned away, and John followed him in uncomprehending silence.

After the battle, Harry conducted himself nobly, indeed, magnanimously. To John he gave the duty of freeing Lord Douglas without ransom, on account of Douglas's bravery, a duty John accepted gladly but not without wondering if Harry did it so he'd keep his mouth shut. Father decreed that Harry would accompany him to Wales, while John would go north with Westmorland to deal with Northumberland, but in the event, neither Father nor Harry made it west; Father took ill not too long after Shrewsbury. It would be the last time he took up arms.

And Harry, for all his bravery and gallantry, his fine talk and his show of repentance, backslid once again into his old life.

III.

The last time John saw his father he didn't get to speak to him at all because Harry had arrived first.

Westmorland had made all speed for court with the news of their victory over the rebels, and as John followed – his men bearing the severed heads of Scroope and Mowbray and Hastings to adorn London bridge as a warning to any others who might dare to touch the Lord's anointed – the long ride from Gaultree Forest was a mixture of anticipation and dread. After all, he had defeated them, without a single blow. Let the men in camp grumble about a fair chance. He (with God's grace, never forgetting that) had put an end to this rebellion without arms, without shedding the blood of a single loyal subject, and peace would reign in England.

Or so he hoped; Father had been ill for some time, and the whisper about the court was that he was dying, that he would not last out the season. John prayed that they were wrong, that he would make it to Windsor in time, that Harry would not ruin everything, Harry who had returned to Eastcheap after Shrewsbury like a dog to his own vomit.

John reached Windsor as the sun was beginning to sink below the horizon, and was met at the castle gates by Westmorland, who crossed the lawn in a few strides, boots crunching through the brown leaves that strewed the grass, to tell him that he had better come quickly to see his father, it wouldn't be long now.

So he dashed through the halls of the castle until he came to the royal chamber – Harry was there, to his surprise, looking pale and wrung-out, and Warwick and other nobles. Father looked grey and ruined, and he clutched Harry's hand as he greeted John.

John knelt beside his father's bedside, head bowed. "Health, peace, and happiness to my royal father," he forced out, and immediately regretted it – it was a foolish thing to say to a dying man, considering, but he couldn't ask him what he really wanted to know – do you know what I did? are you proud?

Father managed a wry smile. "Thou bring'st me happiness and peace, son John," he said, "but health, alack, with youthful wings is flown from this bare withered trunk."

This was the last thing he ever said to John. Father died early the next morning, in the Jerusalem chamber, which everyone including Father himself thought was ironic because of his unrealized crusade plans. John hated irony. It was the kind of thing Harry would have thought was grimly funny if he hadn't been busy being regally somber.

It didn't really feel real that he was dead: instead, it felt strangely empty, like the change of government was a problem that needed to be dealt with right away, but the fact that Father was gone had yet to sink in. As soon as it was decent to slip away John went to the chapel and the only prayer he could formulate was still _Please, Lord, don't let Harry destroy everything._

(What he also wanted to say was _take my father to Your mercy, and please let me stop hating my brother._)

"…and then Harry actually took the crown off his pillow and left," Humphrey said later, over bottles of wine, trying and not succeeding in stifling a strangled giggle, the kind you made when you laughed because otherwise you'd cry.

"Dear Lord," John exclaimed, scandalized. "He didn't!"

"Warwick tracked him down and he was sitting in the next room the whole time, wearing the thing and crying," Thomas said. "Dad was _pissed off._"

"You should have heard him," Humphrey said, pouring another glass. "He took the opportunity to tear Tom and me a new one. I'm almost sorry you missed it."

"I'm not," John said. "How on earth did Harry get out of it?"

"That's what I'd like to know," said Thomas.

"_Pater peccavit in caelum et coram te…_" Humphrey quoted, smirking.

"He's always been good at that sort of thing," Thomas continued. "Like the time he punched Gascoigne."

"That's true," John said. "And then there was Shrewsbury, for what that's worth."

"Gentlemen, the next king of England," Humphrey concluded, and they all dejectedly downed their glasses of wine (John flinched, because he had never really liked it that much; he had been made to drag Falstaff along on campaign in the north, and Falstaff constantly made fun of him for it).

The coronation day dawned grey and damp, as if the heavens themselves were uneasy about the new reign. Harry had done everything right, so far; he had been sober (in all senses) and just, made peace with Judge Gascoigne, reconciled with his brothers. There had been talk of reviving the wars in France that had lain dormant for so long: the civil wars had died, all hoped, with the old King, and his newly reformed son would revive ancient glories. Rumor had it that the clergy would even finance the expedition, if they were allowed to keep their revenues.

By the time the ceremony had ended, enough sunlight had broken through the clouds to cast a harsh, pale light on the crowds that thronged the Abbey, anxious to gain a glimpse of the new king – crowds that quickly parted to make room for an enormous man and his ragged companions. An all-too-familiar voice rang out and the entire court, as one, turned to see Sir John Falstaff rushing towards them, crying "God save thy grace, King Hal, my royal Hal!"

The procession stopped, almost unthinkingly, as confused murmurs arose from the throng. John could feel everyone around him holding his breath as Falstaff continued: "My king, my Jove, I speak to thee, my heart!"

The next moment seemed to last an age.

"I know thee not, old man," Harry said.

Falstaff was committed to the Fleet prison that afternoon. It was a pity that a knight should deserve such degradation, but deserve it he most certainly did. John was sent to oversee his arrest, along with Gascoigne, a duty he found satisfying (purely, he assured himself, because of the benefit to the realm). Falstaff seemed to have aged a decade within hours; as the officers escorted him away from the Abbey he seemed to be an old, sick man. John hoped that his tribulation would teach him to serve God, rather than his own appetites, henceforth.

After the celebrations had finished, John approached his brother, bowing with genuine respect.

"Your Majesty," he began, the title feeling strange and weighty (it was one thing to address your father as king, but your brother, that was different). "May I speak plainly?"

Harry smiled, a thin smile. "Of course," he said. "I welcome your good counsel in all things. And please don't call me 'your Majesty.' It creeps me the hell out when you do it."

"I want to commend your handling of Falstaff, if I may," John said, feeling slightly foolish. "Perhaps your justice tempered by your mercy will give him cause to amend his life."

"We may hope so," Harry said, but his smile had faded, and now he seemed drained. Well, a coronation (and the accompanying celebrations) was probably infinitely more tiring if you were at the center of it.

"You know," John continued, "we were all worried, when Father died, about how things would go, with you as king."

"Really," Harry said, lifting an eyebrow the tiniest bit. "I can't imagine why."

"And I'm sorry," John finished. "I think now we had no reason to doubt you."

Harry's face was inscrutable. "I told Ja– Sir John that – I had turned away my former self," he said. And now he did smile, a little (ironically, John would have noticed if he'd been the sort of person to notice that sort of thing) as he continued: "For this thy brother was dead and liveth again."

And, quite unlike the prodigal's brother, John found that he was able to rejoice in his brother's repentance.


End file.
